You dream about my bookshelves — that’s the way it happens for years — or my crooked smile, or my broken watch. It’s never the whole picture. Only pieces of it. You have tried so hard to forget about me — as a girl, seventeen, and dewy eyed. You have tried so hard to leave my body behind, but it washes up like flotsam — this or that — never enough to put me back together and have me hold you again. I think it’s better this way. I don’t mind the missing, or being missed, but this — this is beautiful. My life like a gold thread woven through your consciousness, so innocuous you hardly even notice it anymore — or my heart like a dandelion that keeps springing up through the cracks in the past you have tried like hell to close and keep closed but still you keep me close — a fragment in a dream, a prop in a scene — I am never gone too long.